Untitled As Of Yet
by Ametuer-Writer
Summary: Takes place after movie. Mr. Todd killed Toby before he could kill him, everything else is the same. Will the Demon Barber ever see his daughter again? Will Charlotte, the young woman Mr. Todd buys from her father, find love in the cold blooded killer?
1. Chapter 1

Morning dawned cold and grey in 19th century London. Steely clouds hung so low in the sky they looked to be just above one's head, and solid as a plaster ceiling. Tendrils of black smoke rising up from soot – blackened chimneys reached towards the sky like hazy, skeletal fingers. Grimy rooftops crowded in on each other, inducing a claustrophobic atmosphere. Down in the muddy cobblestone streets, low – class labourers were already hard at work, pushing dung – laden carts, setting up their stalls at St. Dunstans market, and so on.

On Fleet Street, a few workers toiled. Rats, hardly any cleaner than the men in the street, scurried in the darkness of a large, foreboding archway, above which three heads, taken from thieves and put on show to discourage the general public from committing crimes, were spiked on metal poles.

On the street corner directly across from this rather grisly sight was a barbershop. Under this was a Meat Pie Emporium. The pie shop was dark and empty, as it had been for months, but a faint orange light could be seen in the large window of the barbershop. It came from a single candle that flickered in the depths of the large room, illuminating a vanity and a large wooden chest. The light cast spidery, eerie shadows along the walls, which were covered in peeling wallpaper.

On the wooden vanity stood a small lather bowl, a shaving brush and an ornately carved wooden box, in which usually rested seven beautifully handcrafted, silver razors. At this moment, however, the largest one was being admired by Mr, Sweeney Todd, the owner of the barbershop. He sat in his leather seated barber chair, turning and angling his shiny "friend" in his long, slender fingers, seeing it glint in the candlelight.

He saw his reflection briefly in the blade; his unusually tired and sunken looking eyes glared at him. His skin, which was even paler than its usual shade, looked especially ashen these days, since he was not sleeping well. Actually, he had not slept at all for the past three nights, and he was beginning to show the strain.

The reason sleep had evaded Mr. Todd for so long had actually happened over two months ago. The night when he had put an end to Mrs. Lovett's life, the unfortunate owner of the pie shop downstairs, would be a memorable night. Not because he regretted killing her, though. She had lied, misled him into thinking his wife, whom he had returned home to after spending fifteen years in prison on a false charge, was dead. She hadn't been, though she was little better off, living in the streets in squalor and poverty, half-mad and begging for alms from wealthy passers-by.

Mrs. Lovett had told him she had lied because she loved him. Mr. Todd believed she had gotten what she deserved, her and that meddling child, Toby.

And the Judge… It made Todd's lip curl to think upon his memory, the pious vulture who had raped his dear Lucy, his wife, and who had then adopted his daughter, Johanna, after sending Todd to prison. Judge Turpin was dead, also at the hands of the demon barber, and so was the toadying Beadle.

His Johanna had escaped with a young sailor lad, Anthony, and she had no idea that Todd was her father. Just like Todd had had no idea that the beggar woman, who he had found snooping about his shop, was his wife. When he heard the Judge coming up the stairs, he had to make a decision. He had killed her. He had not recognised his own wife. And the agony of it burned continuously like a million knives twisting themselves into his soul.

Her blank, bloodied face haunted his dreams. The nightmares had gradually gotten worse over time, and Todd supposed it was the loneliness of having no one, and he was slowly going mad, if he wasn't already. The pie – maker had, at least, brought him meals, and chatted to him when business was slow…

The barber stopped staring at his razor to glance out the large window to his right. Drops of rain had begun splattering miserably against the dirty glass, and Mr. Todd knew it would rain all day. The weather had been like that for a week, and it was easy to predict.

Silently he debated whether or not to open up shop that day, and decided he would. He had nothing better to do. He got up from the chair with a slight groan, crossed the room, and set the "closed" sign to "open."


	2. Chapter 2

Charlotte Barrie tramped through the grey London streets, heavy rain pelting her mercilessly. She was getting more and more soaked by the minute. Her father was at her side – holding a large, black umbrella- but he made no effort to shield her from the water, nor did he make any effort to do so. She was to him, after all, useless, the responsibility of caring for his daughter placed squarely on his shoulders when his wife had died, several years previously. He was not selfish enough not to have her thrown in Bedlam or out in the streets, but enough to not love her, ignore or criticize her at every opportunity, to subject her to fits of his drunken rage.

Charlotte shivered and clutched her black woollen shawl closer to her body. The garment was dripping with water, of course, as was everything else she was wearing, but she attempted to scrounge some warmth from it anyway.

"Where are we going, sir?" she asked her father, almost shouting to be heard over the sleet rapping against windows, roofs, and the cobblestones.

"Sweeney Todd's Tonsorial Parlour," he yelled back angrily. As he spoke, he suddenly stopped walking, taking out a handkerchief from a pocket. He dabbed at his elbow, which was rather damp, stuffing the scrap of material away, he exclaimed, "Hurry, child, I'm getting wet!" Lift ya chin and stop slouching!"

"Yes, father," Charlotte said icily, biting her tongue to keep from making a smart remark. She knew from experience that not thinking before speaking to her father could have painful consequences.

Sweeney Todd finished up with his second customer around midday. The elderly man paid and left. Since Mrs. Lovett's _unfortunate_ death, he had no reason to kill his customers, though he often got the urge. But he had only indulged in that pleasure once, because where would he hide the evidence if no one was there to bake his victims into pies? Mrs. Lovett had hidden the leftovers, and a very poor job she had done too, Sweeney believed. It was too much bother to do everything himself.

Anyway, the authorities were already overly suspicious over the mysterious disappearances of Judge Turpin, Beadle Bamford and the widowed woman who had been living underneath the barber's shop. Not to mention the other 106 people who had gone missing. The police had searched the Tonsorial Parlour, Mrs. Lovett's dark and dusty shop and the bakehouse a week after the incidents involving the figures of the law; they had found nothing. This was because Todd had spent near on two days disposing of bodies, cleaning up bloodstains, and getting rid of incriminating evidence. He had done that by throwing everything into the large oven downstairs. Except Lucy. Sweeney found he was unable to watch his beloved wife burn to ashes. Instead, in the dead of night, he had taken her to a beautiful and secret place near the countryside and buried her, staying for an hour or so to relive her shining face. It was the only time Todd could remember crying. No one had found out about the disappearances for two months, and that was the way he intended it to be forever.

The barber broke out of his brooding thoughts when the bell to the door on his shop rang, and two figures, hunched over against the pouring rain, entered. The first person was a man. He scowled as he shook his dripping black umbrella all over the floorboards and leaned it against the large wooden chest beside the door. He fixed his gaze on Mr. Todd, who stood from the barber chair and bade him good day. The man grunted a hello and the door closed before a young woman emerged from behind him, absolutely soaked to the bone. She smiled weakly at the barber.

"Good day, sir," she said.

"Good day," he repeated, looking at her muddy skirts and sodden dress with a raised eyebrow.

"Would the young lady like a towel? The barber enquired of the man.

"She'll be fine," he replied rather irritably. He removed his jacket.

Sweeney looked into the young woman's face and was painfully reminded of Lucy. She had the same wide, blue eyes, and hair that was almost exactly the same shade of yellow. He found her appearance mesmerizing.

"I'd rather like ya to hurry, sir," the man snapped, impatient. "I 'ave somewhere to be." he sat in the chair.

Sweeney snapped out of his trance, realizing he had been staring rather intently at the young girl; she was looking back nervously.

"Of course," he said smoothly, and broke his gaze. The man's… daughter, perhaps, took a seat on the chest and folded her hands in her sodden lap.

Todd eyed the young woman sullenly as he covered the man with a white sheet, tucking it into his collar. He was angry at the girl, at her looking almost exactly like his deceased wife. She certainly had no right to. Sweeney thought he could hear mocking laughter from somewhere; it sounded like it was coming from the wooden chest.

The man sighed and tapped his foot impatiently as Sweeney leisurely began to apply lather over his stubbly face. The girl watched with interest, surveying Sweeney's skilled hands set down the lather and begin shaving her father, taking no more than five minutes to finish the job.

When the barber had finished and removed the sheet from him, the man stood and handed Todd some coins.

"Thankyou, Mr…?" the barber questioned.

"Charles Barrie," the man replied, giving Sweeney a greasy smile.

"And what is the name of the young lady, if I may enquire?"

"'Er name's Charlotte," Mr. Barrie said shortly. "My daughter."

"I see." Sweeney turned to the girl, and the corners of his mouth twitched. She wondered if it was a smile or not as she acknowledged his glance in her direction by grimacing politely.

"Daft as a bloody twit, though," Mr. Barrie continued. "The only way to get any use out of 'er," he said, sneering over at his daughter, "Is to loan 'er out to me friends for the night."

The words jolted Sweeney. The notion that a man would - willingly - let his daughter be used by his friends made him feel a twinge of disgust in his gut. He glanced again at the girl. The look of shame and embarrassment on her face said it all.

"I see," the barber said again, not being able to think of anything else.

"Well, we'd best be goin," Mr. Barrie said, heading for the door. Charlotte glanced again at Sweeney warily before sliding off the chest, leaving a large wet patch, and following her father.

"Hand me my umbrella," Mr. Barrie demanded idly. She handed it to him silently, stabbing him with her eyes, and followed him out to the rain, shivering as fat, wet drops hit her skin.

Her father went down the stairs first, slowly descending in fear of slipping on the rain – slickened concrete. Charlotte followed closely behind, and as she shifted her gaze to the three heads above the archway, the toe of her boot found the heel of his shoe and he tripped, agonizingly slowly, headlong down the steps, almost cracking his head on the pavement below, though catching himself just in time.

Charlotte watching this with her jaw hanging open, her heart beating painfully hard against her ribcage and her head pounding as her father cursed her while he got to his feet.

"You're in for it now, girl," he growled, stalking towards her.

"Oh shit," thought Charlotte, and she found that it was all she could do. "Shit, shit, shit!"

Snarling, the man loomed over his daughter like a black, menacing shadow, but Charlotte knew he was much more dangerous than one. Her eyes widened in fear as he advanced, and he closed his hand over her throat, backing her into the clammy stone wall of the barbershop. She couldn't breath.

"Please - - sir -," she choked out, and scrabbled and the back of his hand.

"I will make you cry when we get home," he uttered, one eye bulging bigger than the other. His face was very close as he squeezed her neck harder, adding the other hand as well. Charlotte flet as if she were drowning – desperate for air she screamed, "Jesus Christ – SOMEBODY HELP ME!" at the top of her lungs. Her father clamped a hand over her mouth. Surely she would die if he kept this up… her vision began to go black around the edges…


End file.
